Another Page to the Song of Songs
Trounslated for the Maccabaean by MAURICE SAMUEL
T
“BESSIE, Bessie! Quicker, quicker!” And I caught hold of little Bessie’s hand, and together we began to run up the hill. This was the day before Shabuot. “Come, Bessie; the day won’t wait for us, little goose, and look what a big hill we’ve got to cross!—And on the other side of the hill is a river, and over the river is stretched a wooden bridge. And the water runs and the frogs croak, and the planks of the bridge all creak and shake. And when we get to the other side of the bridge, we get to the real, real Paradise, Bessie. That’s where my estates begin!”
“Your estates?”
“I mean the meadow—a big, big field. It stretches and stretches away without an end. And it’s all covered with a green blanket, and on the green blanket are scattered specks of yellow and shoots of red. Oh, and you should smell the air—the most beautiful spices in the whole world! And you should see my trees—trees, I tell you, without number—great high trees, branching outwards. And I’ve got a hill there, on which I sit down. I mean to say, if I wish to, I sit on it, but if I don’t, well, I just sit down on my magic carpet and I fly away, like an eagle, high above the clouds and mists, over field and forest, over ocean and desert—until I come to the other side of the dark river.”
“And from there,’ Bessie interrupts me—‘and from there you go on foot seven miles, till you come to a little lake—’”
“No, you don’t know anything about it, Bessie. I come to a dense wood. First I go into the wood, and then I go out of the wood, and I come to a little lake—”
“Then you swim across the water, and you count seven times seven—”
"Yes, and an old, old man, with a long white beard grows out of the ground and he asks me, 'Sir, what is your desire?'"
“So I say to him: ‘Take me across to the Queen’s daughter.’”
Just then Bessie tears her hand from mine, and beginsto run down-hill; and I run after her.
“Bessie, Bessie! Where are you running to?”
No answer. She is vexed. She doesn't like the Queen's daughter. Bessie likes all my tales except the one about the Queen's daughter. . . .
II
But, you ought to know who Bessie is. I think I've already told you once, but I suppose you've forgotten, so I'll tell it to you again.
I had a big brother once—Benny was his name—and he was drowned. And he left behind him a water-mill, a young widow, two horses, and a baby. We left the mill there; we sold the two horses; the widow married someone who lived far away; and we kept the baby.
That was Bessie...
Sometimes I really have to laugh. Everybody thinks that Bessie and I are sister and brother. She calls my mother "Mamma," and she calls my father "papa." And the two of us live together like brother and sister, and we love each other like brother and sister.
Like brother and sister? Then why are you sometimes so shy with me, Bessie?
Once something happened between us. We were left alone in the house, just the two of us in the whole house. Night was falling, it was beginning to get dark. Father had gone to say prayers for the soul of my elder brother Benny, and mother had gone out to buy matches. Bessie and I got into a quiet corner, and I began to tell her stories. Bessie loves to hear my stories —all kinds of stories—about school, and from the Arabian Nights. And she snuggled up to me, and her hand was in mine.
“Ah, Sammy, tell me another one, do!”
Silently the night descends. Slowly, slowly, the shadows gather on the walls, tremble and slide downwards, till they reach the floor and spread themselves out. We can hardly see each other. Only I can feel her heart beating, and I can see her eyes shining in the dark. Suddenly she tears her hand from mine. "Bessie, what's the matter?"
“We musn’t do it.” “Mustn’t do what, Bessie?” “Hold each other’s hand.” “But, why, Bessie? Who said so?” “Nobody said so. I know it myself.” “But we’re not strangers, little goose. Aren’t we brother and sister?” “Oh, Sammy! If we really were brother and sister!” And her words sound like the cry in the Song of Songs: ‘Oh, that thou wert as my brother!’”
It's always the same. Whenever I speak of Bessie, I remember the Song of Songs.
III
Oh, what was I telling you? Oh, yes, the day before Shabuot. We're just running down-hill; first Bessie, and I after her. She is vexed with me about the Queen's daughter. But you needn't worry that Bessie is vexed with me. It lasts just as long as it takes me to tell you about it. In another moment she looks at me again, with her big, bright eyes, she tosses her hair back, and cried:
“Sammy, Sammy, Sammy! Just look at the sky, just look. I do believe you can’t see what is up there!”
“Why, you little goose, of course I can see. I can see the sky, and I can feel a soft wind, and I can hear the birds twittering and chirping and flying over our heads—our sky, Bessie, our wind, our birds—everything is ours, ours, ours. Now give me your hand, Bessie.”
No! She won't give me her hand. She is shy. Now, why is Bessie shy with me? Why won't she let me hold her hand?
“Over there,” says Bessie, and she runs ahead. “Over there, on the other side of the bridge. . . .!” And I seem to hear in her words the call of the Sulamite:— “Come, my beloved, let us go forth into the field, let us lodge in the villages. Let us go up early to the vineyards; let us see if the vine flourisheth, whether the tender grape appeareth, and the pomegranate buddeth forth.
And now we have reached the bridge.
IV
The water runs and the frogs croak and the planks of the bridge creak and shake and Bessie trembles in fear.
“Oh, Bessie, Bessie, you’re a—what are you afraid of, little goose? Hold on to me tightly, or rather let me put my arms round you—so. My arms round you, and your arms round me. See? Now, like this.”
And now we have reached the other side of the bridge.